Bread and Circuses

Over the past month, the American people have been informed that the Internal Revenue Service has been targeting certain groups of their fellow citizens for special harassment because of their political views. Our Justice Department has been seizing phone records of reporters deemed hostile to the government's version of the truth. In addition, a low level contract employee at the National Security Agency named Edward Snowden leaked information to a British newspaper which revealed that the American people have been systematically spied upon in ways previously unimaginable,  ironically, all of this happening under an administration that promised to be the most transparent in history. So far, the reaction of the American people has been a collective yawn.

It has long been a fear of mine that my countrymen would one day, like the ancient Romans be satisfied with “bread and circuses” while everything fell apart around us. That day apparently has come. With our 500 cable channels, thumbs frantically tapping out minutia on ubiquitous cell phones, we seem blissfully unaware. We Americans take it for granted that our politicians are corrupted, so on almost every level we have tuned them out. As long as we have our Duck Dynasty, as long as the cable isn’t out, as long as we can score us some free health care, everything is fine. So, we hear something somewhere about the government seizing our phone records and we flip over to watch TMZ instead. A few cranky Libertarians get all freaked out, an assortment of hypocritical Republicans who couldn’t have cared less about this sort of thing when Bush was in the White House, and even a couple of Democrats warn that the government is getting too powerful, too entangled in what used to be considered our privacy, and all we can think to ask is, “Are Kim and Kanye going to get married?”

So, the various investigations in Washington will exhaust themselves and disappear with nothing having changed, and by inertia the government will grow stronger, more unstoppable by law, less and less answerable to its citizens. Then there will be another election and some idiot will promise the most transparent administration in history again and we won’t even know what the word means anymore. Meanwhile, 2 million people have taken to the streets in Brazil, fed up with their corrupt government’s incompetence, sparked by an increase in bus fare.

Bus fair!

First Paula Deen, Now Ree Drummond??

In a shocking story that has rocked the Food Network world, popular television chef, Ree Drummond was notified this afternoon that her contract would not be renewed next month after evidence was unearthed that she had once used the word, “Indian giver” in a conversation with her sister in law 14 years ago. Native American groups were outraged, but not surprised by revelations of racism coming from a middle aged white woman from Oklahoma.

George “Golden Eagle” Begay, spokesman for NARF(Native American Rights Fund), said that although he watched The Pioneer Woman all the time and really did kind of like some of her recipes, deep down, he knew she was a racist. “The chances of finding a 45 year old Oklahoman who doesn’t hate Indians is about as rare as finding a Peace Treaty where the American government didn’t screw us over.”

Most observers thought that Drummond might be able to survive the discovery of this ugly Indian slur, if she had immediately apologized to the Indian community. But when her husband Ladd sent out said apology with smoke signals, the end was near. “I thought I was honoring their ancient communication system,” he tried to explain, “but from the looks of it, I made it worse.”

The Food Network has been rocked by scandal ever since the revelation just last week that headliner Paula Deen admitted to using the “n” word on numerous occasions. Industry experts are divided on whether the network can survive losing two of its biggest stars to such horrific allegations, especially if rumors that Giada De Laurentiis once told a joke about lazy Greeks back in college, turn out to be true.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

It is one of the undeniable facts of life that teenagers do stupid things. It is equally undeniable that the cult of celebrity has the power to transform otherwise normal people into freaks, Michael Jackson and Lindsey Lohan serving as the most obvious examples. Because I’m not famous, never will be and don’t know anyone who is, it’s very difficult for me to fathom what it must be like. What would my world be like if from the time I was ten years old, everyone constantly told me that I was great? If I had super human talent at acting, or music or athletics, I suppose that over time, I would develop an entourage of devoted, fawning sycophants, none of whom would ever say “no” to me. These sycophants along with my adoring fans would most likely create in me an enormous ego. Then, I suppose I would do something like this:

                                                                

When Mr. James was just a teenager, Sports Illustrated famously declared him the “Chosen One”, the natural heir to Michael Jordan. Heady stuff. But it’s one thing for a magazine to over-hype an athlete to sell copy, it’s another thing entirely to go out and immortalize the hype across your back…for all eternity.

Lebron James is an amazing basketball player. Whether or not he actually proves to be better than Michael Jordan remains to be seen, and Mr. James is certainly not the only great athlete with an ego. But, at this point I shudder to think of what might happen to this guy if he does. If you’re the kind of person who would tattoo yourself with “Chosen 1” before accomplishing anything as a professional athlete, what on earth might you be capable of when you do? Transcendent talent, Grand Canyon-sized ego, what could possibly go wrong?

NBA Finals MVP.....David Stern?

I have no credentials that can justify being a critic of NBA basketball. The last complete NBA game I sat down and watched probably featured Michael Jordon and Larry Bird. What I understand about today’s game comes from reading and watching highlights on Sports Center. But my number one source of information about the game comes from the hilarity that insues at 6 am on my Facebook feed after a playoff game, and I’m here to tell you, nothing is more entertaining than that.

I suppose I lost interest in the pro game when Magic and Bird and Jordon left and were replaced with Allen Iverson, Kevin Garnett, Dirk Nowitzki, and Lebron James types, all terrific players but somehow irritating to me what with the tattoo-covered attitude, “we talkin’ ‘bout practice” of an Allen Iverson, to the pretentiousness of Lebron James calling himself “the king” before he had won anything. With Garnett it was always that angry swagger, the utterly unlikable personality, and with Nowitzki, well, I’ve never been big on imports ( insert eye-rolls and heavy sighing from everyone under 40 ).

Having said all of this, I have thoroughly enjoyed this year’s playoffs, even though I haven’t watched one second of one game. Here’s why. After each game, I don’t have to check ESPN.com for the score, all I have to do is head over to Facebook, sit back and watch the show! It goes something like this”

SPURS FAN: The worst freaking officiating EVER! David Stern wants Lebron to get that second ring. It’s FIXED!

HEAT FAN: Are you kidding me??? The only reason this wasn’t over in four games is because the refs are in the tank for the SPURS!! David Stern is a racist JEW!

SPURS FAN:  Stern got what he wants, a game seven. Wonder how much money he spends every year fixing these games?

HEAT FAN: Erik Spoelstra is on Stern’s payroll too, worst coach ever! Imagine how much greater Lebron would be if he had Phil Jackson!

 

Who is this David Stern, you may ask? What team does he play for? No, no, he isn’t a player; he’s a very rich white guy who apparently has super human powers of manipulation. He’s that rarest of creatures in sports, an aging rich white man of stunning genius who somehow pulls the strings of athletic competition in such a way as to force the Spurs to shoot 60% from the floor to insure his desired outcome. He is the Commissioner of the National Basketball Association, and as such processes powers that Barack Obama can only dream of. A mere phone call from this man can alter outcomes of games. His devious schemes make millions of dollars for his league by insuring the perfect outcomes for games that have been focus-grouped to within an inch of their lives. In so doing, he has become the reason for every team’s success or failure, if my Facebook feed is correct. The upcoming game seven will not be decided by the exploits of Lebron or Tim Duncan, no, no. It will all be the refs fault, and everyone knows that the refs are in David Stern’s back pocket. What a game!

Movie Review: Man of Steel

 I went to see Man of Steel last night. I have always been enamored with this story ever since I used to watch the old thirty minute black and white television series back when I was a kid, the one that ruined George Reeves’ life and led to his suicide at age 45. I loved the Christopher Reeve version, and was saddened at his death too. With that tract record, I hope nothing terrible befalls British actor, Henry Cavill, who does a fantastic job of filling out his spandex uniform but little else.

The movie was a disappointment for me on many levels, but as I was walking to my car in the parking lot afterwards, I was finding it difficult to put into words just why. My wife, as usual, came to the rescue with the best one sentence movie review of all time, “It had a whole lot of too much and not enough of something.” There’s no way I can improve on that, so I will just list in bullet points the things that irritated me.

# At 143 minutes, this movie once again illustrates that Hollywood has forgotten how to edit. Story could have been told just as well if not better in less than 2 hours …easily. The final fight scene between Superman and General Zod was so overcooked and ridiculous it bordered on comical. After destroying half of Metropolis wrestling through building after building, then, just for kicks, wrestling all the way into orbit onto a satellite, it finally occurs to Superman, that he can kill Zod by simply getting him in a choke hold and breaking his neck. Apparently Superman’s superhuman powers did not include the power of deductive reasoning.

# So, in the 2013 version of this story, Perry White turns out to be black.

# Lois Lane, the Pulitzer Prize winning reporter famous for her inquiring mind, after being up close and personal with Superman in the most dangerous and emotionally powerful ways imaginable, hasn’t even the slightest hint of recognition when she is introduced to the newly hired Clark Kent at the end of the movie, a name she knew from her interview with his mother, and despite the fact that Clark’s only disguise was a pair of glasses.

# Although the story of Superman has always been heavy with religious imagery, Director Zack Snyder handles the religious themes with all the subtlety of a punch in the face. As Clark ponders what he is to do with his great powers, he wanders into a church, and as he explains his conundrum to a priest, behind his right shoulder is a huge stained glass depiction of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane in the background. Nicely done Zack. I see what you did there!

Snyder’s approach seems to have been, “let’s spend as little time as possible telling the story, and as much time as possible blowing things up.” In other words, a whole lot of too much and not enough of something.

Great Day, Bad Night

I’ve been making tremendous progress recovering from my shoulder surgery. Each day my range of motion is improving. Each day I have fewer and fewer moments of excruciating pain. Why just yesterday I was able to put on my socks and shoes all by myself. Granted, there were tears in my eyes and I was sweating like a pig by the time it was over, but the fact remains, I got dressed unassisted. Pam even let me drive out to Dad’s Saturday night. I felt like a kid with a learners permit!

Well, last night a minor setback. We had run out of Aleve. It was time for bed, and my shoulder felt pretty good since I had taken my stronger pain stuff only 3 hours earlier, so I took nothing before going to bed. So, at exactly12:45 am, my body, for the first time in eleven days had no pain medication whatsoever in it, big mistake. My eyes popped open and immediately I became aware of a raging fire burning in my shoulder. Weird pulses of terror were running up and down my arm. No cause for panic, I thought, probably just slept funny on it or something. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to take anything before I went to bed. Ok, no problem, I’ll just go down stairs, pop 3 Advil and a hydrocodone and be back asleep in no time. The trip down the stairs was as unpleasant a journey as I have ever endured. Each step rocked the shoulder, and by the time I made it to the kitchen, my hands were shaking like a crack addict on the third day of rehab.

To make a long story short, I finally fell asleep around 4:30 and learned a valuable lesson in the process…drugs are my friend.

Had a great Father’s Day even though both of my pups were away. They both called me with their wishes, and I had steaks on the grill with my wonderful in-laws. Even winged two squirrels in the back yard who should be thanking their lucky stars that I’m on medication, since ordinarily their rude excursion into my yard would have been fatal. Kaitlin sent me an e-mail that had a slide show that she had put together for my Father’s Day present. It was a series of still photographs, with captions and a soundtrack of computerized music trying to sound like 70’s rock and roll. By the time it was over, I had forgotten all about the shoulder. What an incredible gift it was. I thought about posting it on Facebook, so proud I was of it, but then decided it was too private and might come across as bragging. An hour later she had posted it on my wall. In so doing, she further ingratiated herself to her already adoring father and cemented her financial future in my very generous will.

Just kidding

Missing Molly

It’s been 5 weeks since my dog Molly passed away. By now you would think I would be past the raw emotion of her death and for the most part I am. But a day has not passed where I have not had at least one moment of sadness, one instant of loneliness upon her remembrance. One such moment happened last night.

It was a spectacularly gorgeous night, the air was clean, a hint of a breeze stirring in my backyard, the temperature a perfect 76 degrees, like a summer day in Maine. Pam and I were determined to spend the entire evening on the deck, despite the intolerable shrieking of our neighbors’ kids and the howl of lawnmowers from neighbors who always decide to mow their lawns at night just about the time we decide to eat dinner outside. Pam hooked up my cool wireless speaker system and dialed up the Frank Sinatra station on Pandora and soon, we were competing with the annoying soundtrack of suburbia with one of our own, Sinatra, Michael Buble, Ella Fitzgerald, it was no contest! I grilled up some veggies and beef sausages, Pam made some macaroni and cheese and some fresh sweet tea, and soon we were having an amazing night.

After dinner, we sat in our newly purchased recliner chairs, which are every bit as cool and comfortable as they sound, surrounded by beautiful hibiscus plants and Pam’s herb garden. The peacefulness of the moment had all but made me forget about my ailing shoulder. I began to watch the newly filled bird feeder hanging from the tree in the middle of the back yard. There were little wrens and sparrows, competing with rude blue jays, and majestic cardinals. At the base of the tree, an adorable chipmunk was scurrying around for the leftovers.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Molly came to mind. I imagined her laying in her spot in the yard, that one place where she could keep an eye on us on the deck while keeping a sharp eye out down the driveway into the front yard. It was her favorite place, so much so, she had worn a bare spot there. I glanced over at the spot and noticed it was green and healthy, no longer worn and brown as if finally even the back yard, her kingdom, had forgotten her. Maybe it was the pain meds, but in that moment a wave of sadness came over me, powerful and intense. What the hell is wrong with me, I thought. For a minute I thought I was going to start crying, so I got up from my chair, made some excuse for needing to watch the end of the second round of the US Open or something and beat a hasty retreat. Once inside, I quickly recovered in time to watch Phil Mickelson sink a birdee put on 18.

It’s the strangest thing, what the loss of this dog has done to me. About most things I am a logical realist, sentimentality not being something most people would associate with me. But when it comes to Molly, the littlest thing can bring on the most powerful emotions, turning me into a sentimental mess. At some point I’m sure it will all pass, and the memories of Molly will bring only happiness and laughter. But it hasn’t happened yet.